There is something about the nectar of the coffee bean that leaves a happy man even happier and a thirsty man still thirsty (perhaps even more so).
There has been much written and much research done on the topic of that bean. Some posed negative points and some swung towards the positive-which, in Allister's honest and humblest of opinions, was where the reality of it all lies. One sip from ye old ceramic mug and he could feel himself being lifted by some other-worldly force. And he was not so proud that he couldn't drink from other containers. Oh, no. Give him ye old tin cup, ye old canteen, or ye old bucket and he would prove to you that it's not what's outside, but the caffeinated goodness inside that matters.
With every new sip, he would feel his heart beat faster. Pitter, patter, pitter, patter. Then, pitter, patter, pitter, patter. The world would split down the middle and he would find himself engulfed in the warmth of the magma spewing out of its crevice. And it was not burning magma. It was soothing magma. Pitter, patter.
Without any real reason and beyond his control, his smile would stretch to either ear and threaten to go further-stopping only because of the limitations of his face's skin. His speech became rapid-fire. He spewed forth words like a machine gun, but with the supreme accuracy of a sniper's rifle. Pitter, patter. Pitter, patter. He would find he had no idea what he was saying, but the enunciation seemed perfect.
His conversation was not without its merits, either. Intricate theories would pour from somewhere in him that he never knew existed-awakened by that illustrious liquid. Pitter, patter. Pitter, patter. His vocabulary would upgrade and he found his sentences caked in words foreign to him.
(Words like 'spewing','enunciation', and 'caked,' for example.)
There was the danger of saying so much that I could not go back and retrace his thoughts. But, it sure beat saying very little with absolutely no mention of intricate theories. And the steady onslaught of words and ideas kept his partner-in-conversation on their toes at all times and unable to question one theory before another slammed into them. Pitter, patter.
His mind would wrestle with past memories devoid of coffee. Times of first steps, backyards, and other people's birthday parties. And he could not help but wonder what that empty world would have been like if he had only sipped that nectar much earlier in life. Would his growth have been stunted? Perhaps. But, would his memories have been filled with giggles and insightfulness? Most certainly. The possibilities were endless with coffee. Just think about what it would have been like if General Washington's men were given their stomach's worth of coffee every day at Valley Forge. Pitter patter. "Of course, they did fine anyway," he would say. "But, l'm just saying think about it."-Pitter patter, pitter, patter, pitter, patter.
And, quite suddenly, his heart would just patter. Patter, patter. It was like some huge roller coaster. Patter, patter. He inched his way to the top, every inch bringing forth a harder pounding in his chest. Patter, patter. His partner-in-conversation would certainly have by that point and Allister would get nervous. Patter, patter.He would try to focus. And, when that did not work, he would try to distract himself. "Words that rhyme. Words that rhyme'-with PATTER! Patter, scatter. Patter, ladder. Patter, chair. It doesn't rhyme, I know. I'm just saying could you imagine if it did?"
Patter, patter. Patter, patter. The top would draw near. Patter, patter. Allister could see the drop-off. Patter, patter, patter. There was the momentary pause, patter, attempting to convince him, patter, that it was all over now, patter, so that he would, patter, be offguard, patter, when the wheels, patter, unlock, patter patter, and he was shot, patter patter down the hill. Patterpatterpatterpatterpatterpatterpatterpatterpatterpatterpatterpatter... He would close his eyes and lurch forward. And he would pull back. His eyes would open and reveal the glow of his lamp. He had passed out. And this was quite often the case (though, not always).
And Allister would pull himself back up into his wicker chair and stare blankly at the typewriter. A little tired, yes. But-WHEW, what a rush!! He would wait a while for the next cup. Maybe, after he eat something.
There has been much written and much research done on the topic of that bean. Some posed negative points and some swung towards the positive-which, in Allister's honest and humblest of opinions, was where the reality of it all lies. One sip from ye old ceramic mug and he could feel himself being lifted by some other-worldly force. And he was not so proud that he couldn't drink from other containers. Oh, no. Give him ye old tin cup, ye old canteen, or ye old bucket and he would prove to you that it's not what's outside, but the caffeinated goodness inside that matters.
With every new sip, he would feel his heart beat faster. Pitter, patter, pitter, patter. Then, pitter, patter, pitter, patter. The world would split down the middle and he would find himself engulfed in the warmth of the magma spewing out of its crevice. And it was not burning magma. It was soothing magma. Pitter, patter.
Without any real reason and beyond his control, his smile would stretch to either ear and threaten to go further-stopping only because of the limitations of his face's skin. His speech became rapid-fire. He spewed forth words like a machine gun, but with the supreme accuracy of a sniper's rifle. Pitter, patter. Pitter, patter. He would find he had no idea what he was saying, but the enunciation seemed perfect.
His conversation was not without its merits, either. Intricate theories would pour from somewhere in him that he never knew existed-awakened by that illustrious liquid. Pitter, patter. Pitter, patter. His vocabulary would upgrade and he found his sentences caked in words foreign to him.
(Words like 'spewing','enunciation', and 'caked,' for example.)
There was the danger of saying so much that I could not go back and retrace his thoughts. But, it sure beat saying very little with absolutely no mention of intricate theories. And the steady onslaught of words and ideas kept his partner-in-conversation on their toes at all times and unable to question one theory before another slammed into them. Pitter, patter.
His mind would wrestle with past memories devoid of coffee. Times of first steps, backyards, and other people's birthday parties. And he could not help but wonder what that empty world would have been like if he had only sipped that nectar much earlier in life. Would his growth have been stunted? Perhaps. But, would his memories have been filled with giggles and insightfulness? Most certainly. The possibilities were endless with coffee. Just think about what it would have been like if General Washington's men were given their stomach's worth of coffee every day at Valley Forge. Pitter patter. "Of course, they did fine anyway," he would say. "But, l'm just saying think about it."-Pitter patter, pitter, patter, pitter, patter.
And, quite suddenly, his heart would just patter. Patter, patter. It was like some huge roller coaster. Patter, patter. He inched his way to the top, every inch bringing forth a harder pounding in his chest. Patter, patter. His partner-in-conversation would certainly have by that point and Allister would get nervous. Patter, patter.He would try to focus. And, when that did not work, he would try to distract himself. "Words that rhyme. Words that rhyme'-with PATTER! Patter, scatter. Patter, ladder. Patter, chair. It doesn't rhyme, I know. I'm just saying could you imagine if it did?"
Patter, patter. Patter, patter. The top would draw near. Patter, patter. Allister could see the drop-off. Patter, patter, patter. There was the momentary pause, patter, attempting to convince him, patter, that it was all over now, patter, so that he would, patter, be offguard, patter, when the wheels, patter, unlock, patter patter, and he was shot, patter patter down the hill. Patterpatterpatterpatterpatterpatterpatterpatterpatterpatterpatterpatter... He would close his eyes and lurch forward. And he would pull back. His eyes would open and reveal the glow of his lamp. He had passed out. And this was quite often the case (though, not always).
And Allister would pull himself back up into his wicker chair and stare blankly at the typewriter. A little tired, yes. But-WHEW, what a rush!! He would wait a while for the next cup. Maybe, after he eat something.
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